Image courtesy of Pixomar at FreeDigitalPhotos.net Garden Party by Lila Munro
Melanie’s chest heaved with exertion as she pulled the old barn door open, scooped her skirts up in her trembling hands, and darted inside. Choppy bits of white bounced off the cracked windshield of her grandfather’s old ‘57 Chevy housed inside then swirled away in a cloud of dust motes. The hollow sound of boots hitting the ground outside sent her dashing sideways around the car, glancing behind her to see if Jonathan had followed. Smug in her assumption she’d made a clean getaway from his chase of her after they’d sneaked away from her mother’s garden party, she whirled after seeing no shadows following her and landed cleanly into a rock solid build, two arms running out to catch her before she landed on her backside.
“Gotcha,” Jonathan whispered into Melanie’s hair which had fallen into disarray during her run, flying out around her temples.
“Not quite,” she whispered back, sliding out of his arms and darting away again only to discover he had her cornered with nowhere left to go but up.
Latching onto the loft ladder, she almost had herself pulled up when Jonathan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back down. They fell together into the hay, Melanie beneath him.
Every ounce of wind she had left slipped from her lungs as Jonathan reached up and cradled her face then brought his lips to hers. A whisper of touch. An eternity of feeling.
In The Room Where You Do What You Don’t Confess; By LeeAnn Sontheimer Murphy
In tailored slacks and a navy blazer, with her hair swept up into a classic ‘do, Rachel fit the stereotype of the quintessential wife, mother, and PTO president well. Her manners were impeccable, at home, in the office, at school, and in the pew on Sunday. In the confessional, she bowed her head each week and asked for forgiveness for her sins – all but the greatest one of all. No one doubted her virtue except the man who knew her best, Rod.
Each Friday morning, her day off, she headed for an old house on the far edge of the city. Rachel left her hair to hang free. Rod preferred it so. The dark-skinned biker excited her in ways no other man ever had or would. With him, she existed and experienced life.
She parked her car behind the hedge, crossed the creaking porch, and used the key. Then she mounted the stairs and walked down the dusty hallway to the end where Rod waited behind the half-open red door. Crossing the threshold transformed her from good Rachel to deliciously wicked Rach.
Rod always lolled on the bed, naked and erect. Rach shed her clothing before she joined him, eager to kiss and use her tongue everywhere. Their loving was always hot and fast. They didn’t talk or hurry, just came together in the room where Rachel always did what you don’t confess.
After, Rachel went home, hugging the memories of Rod’s skin and body, savoring them until next time.
Find out more about LeeAnn
Melanie’s chest heaved with exertion as she pulled the old barn door open, scooped her skirts up in her trembling hands, and darted inside. Choppy bits of white bounced off the cracked windshield of her grandfather’s old ‘57 Chevy housed inside then swirled away in a cloud of dust motes. The hollow sound of boots hitting the ground outside sent her dashing sideways around the car, glancing behind her to see if Jonathan had followed. Smug in her assumption she’d made a clean getaway from his chase of her after they’d sneaked away from her mother’s garden party, she whirled after seeing no shadows following her and landed cleanly into a rock solid build, two arms running out to catch her before she landed on her backside.
“Gotcha,” Jonathan whispered into Melanie’s hair which had fallen into disarray during her run, flying out around her temples.
“Not quite,” she whispered back, sliding out of his arms and darting away again only to discover he had her cornered with nowhere left to go but up.
Latching onto the loft ladder, she almost had herself pulled up when Jonathan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back down. They fell together into the hay, Melanie beneath him.
Every ounce of wind she had left slipped from her lungs as Jonathan reached up and cradled her face then brought his lips to hers. A whisper of touch. An eternity of feeling.
In The Room Where You Do What You Don’t Confess; By LeeAnn Sontheimer Murphy
In tailored slacks and a navy blazer, with her hair swept up into a classic ‘do, Rachel fit the stereotype of the quintessential wife, mother, and PTO president well. Her manners were impeccable, at home, in the office, at school, and in the pew on Sunday. In the confessional, she bowed her head each week and asked for forgiveness for her sins – all but the greatest one of all. No one doubted her virtue except the man who knew her best, Rod.
Each Friday morning, her day off, she headed for an old house on the far edge of the city. Rachel left her hair to hang free. Rod preferred it so. The dark-skinned biker excited her in ways no other man ever had or would. With him, she existed and experienced life.
She parked her car behind the hedge, crossed the creaking porch, and used the key. Then she mounted the stairs and walked down the dusty hallway to the end where Rod waited behind the half-open red door. Crossing the threshold transformed her from good Rachel to deliciously wicked Rach.
Rod always lolled on the bed, naked and erect. Rach shed her clothing before she joined him, eager to kiss and use her tongue everywhere. Their loving was always hot and fast. They didn’t talk or hurry, just came together in the room where Rachel always did what you don’t confess.
After, Rachel went home, hugging the memories of Rod’s skin and body, savoring them until next time.
Find out more about LeeAnn
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